


The First Days of Spring

by HumanDisaster (chocolate_shreddies)



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Mentions, Angst, Everybody Lives, Fluff, I was nearly late for work because i posted this, M/M, No Proofreading We Die Like Men, Not Canon Compliant, i majorly messed with the timeline and i'm not sorry, i was making it up as i went along, i went off the rails tbqh, long story short morse and bixby are in love and it's wonderful okay? Okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:46:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22409665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chocolate_shreddies/pseuds/HumanDisaster
Summary: Alternatively titled: How To Fall In Love In Seven Days, A Brief Jaunt Through The Love Affair Of Endeavour Morse and Joss Bixby.In which an ex-policeman and a self-made millionaire meet, fall in love, are nearly torn apart, find out some uncomfortable truths and come back together again, all in less than four months. Whew!
Relationships: Joss Bixby/Endeavour Morse
Comments: 14
Kudos: 40





	The First Days of Spring

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so here's the deal. This is my first fic is about a year, second in 5 or so years and the longest i have written in a long time. So i hope it's not too terrible. I put a lot of love and a few actual tears into this so please let me know what you think. Comments mean the world to me and they let me know i'm not wasting my time.
> 
> This fic loosely follows the plot of the episode Ride. I say loosely because i added a lot of scenes, moved some stuff around and generally messed up the timeline. Broadly speaking though, the scenes not covered in this happen as normal, i just didn't want to use too much direct script stuff trying to cover them unecessarily.
> 
> The title comes from the Noah and the Whale song of the same name, which i listened to a lot while writing this. It's part of my folk playlist which was very appropriate and thematic and contains a lot of beautiful songs, so you should at least listen to the title song, for dramatic effect or something.
> 
> Finally, before this gets too long, i'd like to thank rebelqueenofthediscovery on tumblr for their consistent support throughout.
> 
> Many thanks for being here and i hope you enjoy! Xoxo

They meet quite by chance, really. Morse is not a big believer in fate, but for the rest of us there is a clear sequence of events that led to the arrival of an ex-police officer in a wooden cabin on the lakeside. Therefore, this sequence of events is also responsible for the meeting of a self-made millionaire and what followed. Ergo, it must have been fated. However Morse has met a great many people in his lifetime; it kind of comes with the job and so to him this meeting really seems to be a chance encounter. 

It is chance that drops an ivory envelope on his front porch one gray afternoon. Inside rests a letter on embossed paper, written in an elegant, sloping hand, signed by the mysterious Bibxy, about whom he has heard much. He folds the paper neatly, turning it over in his hands as he looks out over the murky waters of the lake. The air is beginning to sharpen with the familiar edge of clear summer nights; it smells fresh and earthy and he breathes deeply before setting himself down in the wooden chair on the deck.

It could be quietly suggested that the cabin behind him is not dissimilar from himself at present. A little run-down, once loved but deteriorating with time. Lonely out here in the woods, the ripple of water and gnarled roots of the trees the only company on cool, dark nights. Sparsely furnished with mismatched pieces, a little confused. A fitting metaphor for the struggle that oftens takes a backseat in his mind.

Morse has taken his fair share of beatings, both mental and physical. Though young he feels a weariness deep in his very being, a yearning for something more and yet also for something familiar. Oxford has become his home but this lakeside cabin provides him with a refuge from the darkness that penetrates the city. Being a police officer gives him a sense of purpose, puts the excessive thinking of his brain to a better task than self-pity and yet the festering, open wounds of betrayal and corruption put doubt in his mind. He is tired, he is confused, he is lonely and he has neither the desire nor the energy to untangle the web in his mind, so he hides from it. Thus the cabin is a fitting metaphor.

He tosses the idea of the party back and forth in his mind for some time. He does not frequent parties. He finds them too busy and too loud for his liking and this party is surely just a chance for this Bixby to show off his wealth and good fortune. But, Morse has been embarking on a new path in life recently and since he has friends here perhaps a party would be an enjoyable change of pace.

He contemplates a moment longer then nods at the paper in his hand and lets himself into the quiet warmth of the cabin.

~*~

It would be fair to say that Morse is intrigued by Bixby from the very first moment that they meet. He appears to be the exact opposite of what his material possessions suggest. Where his house is grand and imposing, filled with priceless works of art and the finest furniture and demanding your attention simply by its magnificent nature, Bixby himself seems soft and small, in the sense that he does not parade around with grandeur - indeed, this is perhaps why Morse does not instantly recognize him as the host. 

He appears quietly confident and certainly gains attention through the friendliness he radiates and a clear desire to please. Where his halls currently swirl with swathes of silk and chiffon, pearls and silver wristwatches, smiles and laughter, Bixby is, of course well-dressed, but the soft, untamed nature of his hair and the frequency and drama of his parties suggest has not always been so well acquainted with money. Most interestingly, though, his face seems to hold a great deal of emotion. He smiles with his mouth but not with his eyes, and offers all the finest goods the world can offer but cannot say with certainty that he has everything he could possibly want. 

Morse is under no illusions when it comes to the wealthy folk of Oxford. He knows exactly what they are like and generally spares them minimal time, but he has to admit that Bixby appears to be a little different. He is interesting, Morse decides as he watches the other man walk away, sees the unrestrained ease with which he embraces a friend.

Perhaps that is why he finds himself at the lakeside the next morning, out of sheer curiosity and nothing more. He is the first to arrive so he takes a moment to look out over the misty waters, the summer morning air still cool. He feels a fondness for this secret hideaway of his and what little peace it has brought him (still more than Oxford ever had).

“I wasn’t sure if you would come,” a voice from behind him says. He turns, gives what he is surprised to find is a small, genuine smile as Bixby strolls towards him, hands buried in the pockets of his slacks.

“I said I would,” he replies, “and I always keep my word.”

“A reliable man,” Bixby says as he reaches Morse and stretches out an arm to clasp his shoulder in an easy and eternally friendly embrace, despite them only having met the night prior. “They are hard to find these days.” He smiles, turns them towards the water and his hydroplane.

“Isn’t she a beauty?” He says in a manner one might speak of their partner. Morse crouches to inspect the machine closer. It certainly is a marvel of engineering, a master of speed and adrenaline and the epitome of wealth, but the appeal fails to entice Morse. Perhaps it is the nature of his profession, for all he sees when he looks at the hydroplane is death and danger.

“Why would you risk all this?” He asks. It seems better to live a quiet and uneventful life in comfort than to die young and never enjoy the spoils of your labour. Bixby shrugs, gazing out over the lake.

“If you can make a heap of all your winnings and risk it all in one turn of pitch and toss. . ." he trails off.

“The thrill? You’d risk it all for a moment of adrenaline?”

Bixby turns to him this time, a rueful smile on his face. “If a man works all his life and makes nothing but money, will it all have been worth it?”

“Some would say so,” Morse points out, straightening up. He watches Bixby closely, eyes scanning over the contours of his face, down to his shoulders, the hands buried in his pockets and back up again. Bixby hums, rocks on the balls on his feet.

“Not in my experience,” he says quietly. 

~*~

Time seems to pass by so easily as they talk he scarcely notices the pale clouds rolling across the sky until a shiver runs down his spine. Sitting by the waters edge in good company is so calming it seems as though they exist wholly within a bubble; nothing seems to trouble him here beyond a quietly incessant need to determine what exactly it is that makes Bixby’s shoulders slump so.

“We should return to the house,” Bixby says, pushing himself up off the ground and offering Morse a hand. They walk, side by side, a comfortable distance between them as Bixby tells him of his childhood, how he came into such good fortune. Just a lucky fellow, it seems, born into the right family, presented with the right opportunities and blessed with a head for business. Morse suspects there is more to it than that, given the dismissive way he speaks of the past, but it is certainly not Morse’s place to press further, not as of yet at any rate and he’d rather not spoil what has been a pleasant morning with his unbridled curiosity.

“Ah,” Bixby exclaims suddenly as they approach the house. “These are my real passion,” he gestures to the rather impressive array of cars before them. “The new Klipspringer Continental, she was delivered this morning, why don’t you take her for a spin?”

“It’s a bit fast for me, I’d be more at home in something like that, maybe.” He gestures further down the line.

“She’s yours,” Bixby says cheerily. Morse can hardly believe his ears, as if Bixby could give away a - surely expensive - car to a relative stranger. Of course he had gauged that there was more to the man than met the eye but this seems practically insane.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he says incredulously, “you hardly know me.”

Bixby smiles at him, something soft and uncertain as he leans against the car behind him. “Call it gamblers instinct. You’re a straight bat old man, knew it as soon as I saw you.”

Morse shakes his head disbelievingly, he hardly knows how to react. Thankfully he is saved from having to respond by Bixby pushing away from the car and slouching towards him.

“What’s your line?” He asks, and that one simple question snatches away all of the pleasantness that had come to rest in Morse’s chest. It is the one question he was dreading, the one that forces him to face himself again and he’d really rather not do that right now, not here and not with Bixby, who knows him as this version of himself, unencumbered by emotional trauma and internal conflict.

It’s Bixby’s turn to watch him as he takes his time looking over the closest car, unsure of how he should answer. Finally he says simply, “let’s just say I’m reviewing my options.” 

“Well I could use a good corner man. Why don’t you come and work for me while you make your mind up?” Bixby cocks his head, fixes Morse with a look that says he is genuine in his offer, but that he won’t pressure.

“Doing what, exactly?”

“Keeping me out of trouble in the main.” A small smile passes between them and Morse is intrigued, he will freely admit it.

“Why? Do you get much of that? Trouble."

“Anyone that ever made a deal made an enemy,” Bixby says matter-of-factly. It seems impossible that Bixby, with his charm and generosity and easy friendliness could ever upset anyone but Morse has no illusions about the business world either. Yet the idea that anyone could ever wish to hurt Bixby sits uncomfortably with him.

It is then that he spots something crudely carved into the side of the car he stands in front of. He rounds the bonnet, kneeling in the dirt in front of it and passes his fingers over the message.

“Book of numbers, chapter 32, verse 23,” he murmurs, then, louder for Bixby’s benefit, “ye have sinned against the Lord and be sure your sin will find you out.”

Bixby’s lips part on a silent inhale as he looks away from Morse, runs a hand through his hair.

“Any idea what it could be referring to?” Morse asks.

“Not at all,” Bixby says firmly before he turns and walks away.

~*~

Morse turns the conversation over and over in his mind that afternoon as he sits on the rickety wooden chair on the porch. Their meeting had ended quite abruptly after the discovery of the peculiar vandalism of the car. It is very clear that Bixby, like most men, has something to hide. Morse is not naive enough to think that anyone has a perfect life and he is certainly curious to know what exactly it is that Bixby is keeping from him.

He is inexplicably drawn to the man, perhaps due to his unwavering friendliness and the ease at which he can make conversation with seemingly anyone. He is quite the contrast to Morse who, though not unfriendly, is exceedingly skilled at rubbing people up the wrong way. He sees people the way they are and is under no illusions about the truth of a person; most people seek only to help and protect themselves. 

This - in a meandering and roundabout way - brings him to think of Cowley station. He would perhaps dare to say that the men there are his friends, they stood by him through his imprisonment and though he would never claim that any of their paths have been smooth, they are loyal and true. His eyes fall to the spot in which Thursday had stood last night; he had sought Morse out and asked him to come back. Thursday, more of a father to him than his own. Thursday, who had been grievously wounded by Morse’s failings just a few months previously.

He is about to fall into a dark spiral of thoughts that start with Thursday and end with a bottle of Whiskey when a twig snaps somewhere to the left. His head flies up, hands gripping the arms of the chair, startled.

“Sorry old man,” the voice of the perpetrator says and Bixby rounds the corner of the cabin a few seconds later. “Didn’t mean to frighten.”

“You just caught me unawares is all,” Morse replies, relaxing back into the chair. Bixby gives the cabin a once over, complete with the wrinkling of eyebrows and pursing of lips, then pulls a bottle from somewhere within his jacket and offers it to Morse.

“Drink?” Morse takes it gratefully and leads the way inside. He pours them each a glass and drags in the chair from outside so they can both sit at the table. The dim lighting of the cabin softens the features of Bixby’s face; it makes him look younger, more vulnerable and Morse suspects it does something similar for him.

“Interesting choice of accommodation,” Bixby says good-naturedly as he takes a sip.

“It was free,” he replies, “and I never intended to stay for long.”

“Right,” Bixby says, “just while you review your options." Morse smiles a little, tips his glass towards Bixby in acknowledgment. They lapse into a comfortable silence, punctuated only by the soft and insistent shifting of the water behind them. It feels unnervingly natural, given that they barely know each other.

“I came to apologise,” Bixby murmurs finally. Morse raises his eyebrows and sets his drink down on the table. “Earlier. It was awfully rude of me to run off like that. It was just a bit of a shock. With the car. That’s all. I mean - they’re awfully expensive. But like I said I’m not without my enemies.” He says all of this to the liquid in the bottom of his glass and it feels very much like he’s skirting around the truth. The policeman within Morse wants to press him further, but he doesn’t want to ruin whatever strange friendship is evolving between them.

“You’re not worried?” Morse asks, Bixby finally looks up from the glass, questioningly. “That they might try something more than just vandalising your car?” Bixby makes a face, shrugs his shoulders as though that answers the question and Morse finds that it frustrates him deeply.

Bixby glances at the watch on his wrist, then around the cabin once more.

“You’re very welcome to stay with me, at the house, if you fancy a change of scene,” he says, then gulps down the last of his drink and stands before Morse can reply. “I should go, preparations to make and all that.”

Morse nods and stands as well, he offers the bottle of drink back to Bixby who shakes his head.

“You can keep it,” he says, but Morse can’t, he knows that bottle will be empty before nightfall if it stays here.

“For later.” Bixby smiles at this, reaches out to take it from him but, for reasons known only to God, apparently, Morse doesn’t let go immediately. Bixby’s hand is warm where it wraps around his on the bottle and there’s a long, slow moment where they just look at one another, suddenly intensely serious.

“You’ll come then? To the party,” Bixby says quietly and Morse nods. Bixby flashes him a soft, small smile and Morse relinquishes his hold on the bottle, lets Bixby take it with him as he turns and leaves, though, for a fleeting second, Morse thinks he might like to drink that bottle after all.

~*~

Much, much later he gets to finish the bottle, sitting in the study of Bixby's magnificent house, quietly contemplating the evening.

All things considered, it has been quite a mess. Bixby, with his split lip and bloody fingers, sits opposite him, nursing a glass and staring into the fire that warms the room.

There's a feeling he's stoically ignoring in his chest, tucked back in there somewhere. It's been following him for a few days now. It had reared its head when Bruce had let his jealousy get the better of him and it nags at him now as he watches Bixby. 

Bixby, it seems, is not quite a clear cut as he had appeared; his association with Harry Rose and possible connection to Jeanie Hearne have left Morse confused and a little wary but he cannot find it within himself to think that Bixby is guilty of any crime. In fact, he sees a little of himself reflected in Bixby. 

They are both lonely, one surrounded by hundreds of people, the other very few and yet they share a common ailment. He could also suggest that, like himself, Bixby is confused about what he wants from life and how he has ended up where he is. Would either of them give up everything for the one thing they crave the most?

He nearly asks, but instead he says "I saw you at the fayre last night" and follows it up with the uncomfortable revelation that he is, in fact, a policeman. Apparently he has, deep down, chosen that above this life of revelry and dancing which, on reflection, hasn't turned out to be all as wonderful as it had seemed.

Bixby regards him for a long, long moment, a flurry of emotions flicking through his eyes before he settles on simply looking back to the fire.

"Oh," he says quietly, hands folding over themselves in his lap. Morse suspects then that Thursday's accusations hadn't all been entirely incorrect and he feels the need to apologise for misleading Bixby. Not that he really had, but perhaps things would have been different if he had told him straight away that he was a policeman. The thought sits uncomfortably in his belly as the silence drags on. 

"Come on," Bixby says finally, "i need to clear my head".

~*~

The air outside is cool and crisp, not quite enough to make him shiver but a welcoming breath of freshness. They walk in silence for a while, watched by the stars, shining bright on this clear night.

They come to a stop at the water's edge, somewhere Morse seems to find himself frequently. There's something contemplative about the water, reflecting everything it sees. Maybe if one stares for long enough they'll see the true reflection of themselves.

"Do you believe in soulmates?" Bixby asks as he gazes up at the stars.

"I don't think so," Morse says. "Do you?"

Bixby shrugs, "I used to," he says, "but i'm not so sure anymore".

Morse looks at him, bathed in the soft glow of the moon and looking to the world like a man who has never known anything good.

"Kay?" He asks quietly, watches Bixby smile sadly.

"Yes. I truly thought she was my soulmate, for so long."

"What changed?"

Bixby swallows, breathes deeply and gives a nervous little laugh.

"On a night like this, one might believe anything is possible," he says vaguely, sneaks a little glance at Morse.

"What do you mean by that?" Morse asks, that insistent feeling pressing against his ribs, his heart creeping his way up into his throat. The silence between them is almost deafening, the whole world holding its breath.

"I met someone," Bixby says finally. "I met someone and we clicked in a way I never have with anyone before. It was frightening at first, it still kind of is to be honest. I thought Kay was my soulmate and when I saw her tonight there was a moment where everything I ever felt for her came crashing back. But when all is said and done and the house was empty and my lip was bloody, there was only one person left next me."

Morse inhales, forces himself to exhale a steady breath.

"How-?" His voice cracks. He clears his throat, rubs the back of his neck with his right hand and tries again. "How do you know this isn't just a temporary feeling? Just - just a rush of euphoria after being lonely and yearning for so long?"

Bixby finally looks him in the eye, smiles something sweet and genuine and real and says "if you can make a pile of all your winnings and risk it all in one turn of pitch and toss. . ." He echoes his words from earlier that week and Morse suddenly understands. 

He's risking their friendship on the chance that it could be something more and if it fizzles out in a week then so be it, but Morse himself cannot even deny that there had been an instant connection between them. He had never felt so comfortable with a relative stranger. He had risked his friendship with Bruce, an old friend, for a relative stranger. And now that stranger is standing before him, flexing his hands by his sides as he looks at Morse with those soft, chocolate eyes that bare his soul every time they make eye contact.

The pressure in his chest bursts free and Morse lets it go, it flows through his whole body and it leaves him feeling sick. He takes half a step towards Bixby, heart racing. 

"Your hands are never still," he says softly, reaching out to take them.

"I-,". He never gets to finish his sentence because Morse takes a risk, he hedges his bets, piles his coins high and takes a leap. He leans in and presses their lips together, a brief butterfly brush of lips.

"Oh," Bixby murmurs between them. Then, "oh", again as he crowds up against Morse, presses their lips together once again. This time he inhales sharply, winces at the sting of the broken skin on his lip.

Morse huffs out a laugh, pulls back just enough to look at Bixby. His eyes are bright, hands warm in Morse's, cheeks pink even in the moonlight.

"Stay with me. Here. Tonight," Bixby murmurs and Morse nods.

~*~

He wakes in the morning to weak sunlight bathing the room in gentle golden hues, silky sheets against his skin and a mattress so soft he thinks he may never be able to get out of it. And Bixby, asleep next to him, face free of all its sadness; sweet and restful. 

He can't help the smile that creeps across his face, it's been a while since he's felt the giddiness of new love. He knows it could just be something fleeting but Bixby exhales a soft breath and shifts in his sleep and Morse finds it hard to care.

He would stay in this moment forever if he could, when things are still and fragile, soft and gentle, new and exciting. He could never go back to Oxford, he could just stay here.

"Morning," Bixby murmurs, eyes still half closed, sheet pulled up across the rest of his face.

"Good morning," Morse replies, slides a hand across the sheets to touch Bixby's bare arm. It's a novelty, a joy. He wants to touch and take and never let go. 

Instead they exchange a small smile and Morse closes his eyes again.

~*~

Time flits past in a blur of golden days, sun soft skin and stolen kisses. Truth be told Morse is waiting. Waiting for the other shoe to drop, as the saying goes. In his general experience, happiness comes in short, sweet bursts, punctuated by torment and misery. He has, thus far, enjoyed a week of contentment, spent idly lazing about Bixby’s great big house and attending dinners as his ‘Good Friend’, which is consistently followed by a coy smile from the man himself.

It has taken some figuring out. They are, as established, new friends, they don't know that much about each other and they're embarking on a relationship that has a much chance of being a summer fling as it does something long-lasting. They talk about things, but not the important things; those are tucked far away in a dusty box in the darkness of the brain, neither one of them willing to risk bringing an abrupt end to whatever this is by revealing uncomfortable truths. So they skirt around the issue and it has yet to prove itself a problem, so-.

"So," Bixby says over breakfast one day, "a policeman". He rolls the word around his mouth, raises an eyebrow at Morse, who folds up the paper he had been reading and places it carefully on the table.

"Yes." They haven't talked about it since Bixby found out, he had hoped they might avoid the topic altogether but he supposes they had to talk about it at some point.

"Did you always know you wanted to be a policeman?" Bixby rests his chin on his hand, looks at Morse with his bright, inquisitive eyes.

"Not really," he says honestly, "it just kind of happened. I always had a knack for puzzles and I suppose detective work is just a strange sort of puzzle." 

"And your parents? Were they proud?" Bixby asks next. Morse grimaces.

"My mum died when i was young, but she was a kind woman so i suspect she wouldn't have minded so much. My father. . .he was hard to please."

"I'm sorry," Bixby murmurs, "that's awfully sad." Then, "do you enjoy it?" And that's the thing that's been bothering Morse ever since he arrived in the countryside. He takes a bite of his toast to avoid immediately answering the question.

"Yes and no, I suppose. I get to help people, but only ever when they're at their lowest, when they've lost someone they love. I get to see the worst of people too and that isn"t always so pleasant. It's. . .messy."

"And you were reviewing your options because it was. . ."

"Messy." Morse finishes the sentence for him. Bixby smiles at him. "What about you?" He asks then, "did you always want to be a millionaire?"

Bixby laughs, something small and fond. "With a surname like Bixby I was always destined for greatness." He glances out the window, across the expanse of neatly mowed lawn and to the lake beyond.

"I just fell into it too really," he says, "funny how that happens."

"And Harry Rose?" Morse asks, it's a question that has been niggling at him for the past few days. 

"Harry helped me out a lot when i was just starting out in the business. He's not a bad guy, a petty criminal but nothing serious. Everything here is above board and legitimate, I promise."

It settles the unease in his belly; it really would be terrible to find out that he has to arrest his. . .boyfriend, he supposes, for criminal activity. For he is rather fond of him.

"What shall we do today?" Bixby asks, and just like that they move on, as though nothing had ever happened.

~*~

"Do you believe in fate?" Bixby asks one day as they're laying in the long grass by the waters edge. Morse cracks open an eye to find Bixby looking down at him, eyes serious. "Do you think that our entire lives are laid out for us before we're even born?"

"No,"Morse says quietly, but firmly. "Every man makes his choices. Life is too unpredictable for me to believe some higher power called all the shots on our behalf."

Bixby nods slowly, his gaze moving away from Morse's face to the horizon somewhere. There's a slight tremble in his hand as he brushes the hair off his face.

"So you think there are bad people out there, I mean truly evil people?"

"I know it to be true," Morse says, "i've seen it firsthand." Next to him Bixby lets out a shaky breath. Morse pushes himself upright and scoots down the blanket, he lays a hand on Bixby's right knee, presses his thumb into the soft flesh there. Bixby gives him a weak smile, and though he'll try and play it off as a trick of the light if asked, his eyes are suspiciously wet.

"There are good people that make bad choices," Morse says quietly. He knows this is building up to something big and everything around them seems to have quietened in anticipation. "I don't know what choices you made Bix, but you're not a bad person."

"I-," Bixby cuts himself off, lets his hand fall to cover Morse's and he looks. . .desperate, almost. As though he needs to rid himself of something right there and then.

"What?" Morse asks, gently encouraging as he squeezes his knee. Bixby opens his mouth, closes it, throat working. He looks at Morse, but before he can say anything else they're interrupted.

"Phone call for you sir," the butler says. Bixby flashes Morse an apologetic smile, presses a kiss to the back of his hand and clambers to his feet.

Morse watches him go and it feels like the end of something.

~*~

It is, in a way. And things do come crashing down, as expected, but certainly not in a way he ever could have imagined. It happens like this:

"I thought we'd have a party on Saturday." They're in the living room, the windows wide open to frame the night sky and allowing the sweet, cloying summer air to waft over them.

Bixby lies on the sofa opposite him, stretched out and languid as though he has not a care in the world - the opposite of how he had seemed when they met. Morse turns his attention from the crossword to look him over, then nods.

"If that's what you want to do i shan't say no."

"A client asked me," Bixby says, fingers fiddling with a loose string of the rug beneath the sofa. "It's been a while and I'd hate to lose my reputation."

"For over-the-top extravagant parties?"

"Exactly that." Bixby flashes him a smile and Morse rolls his eyes, though he expects it looks overly fond.

~*~

Saturday dawns slow and cool, it's overcast and breezy in that specific summer way. Morse barely sees Bixby all day, he's busy with work and preparations for the party that evening.

He is accustomed to being alone so he doesn't let it bother him. He takes a walk around the woods, sits in the chair on the cabin porch and contemplates for a while.

He will have to return to Oxford at some point, he supposes. He's decided, in his heart, that he has to go back. Being a policeman is who he is and he hasn't been able to hold himself back from thinking about the Jeanie Hearne case, or what little information he has on it. He just doesn't know how to breach the topic with Bixby. He doesn't want to have to choose between his career and the man he cares for deeply if Bixby won't come to Oxford with him.

"I thought I might find you here." Morse makes to get up, to fetch the other chair from inside but Bixby stops him.

"No, it's okay," he says, "I came to drag you back to the house. Harry is here and there are some others arriving soon that I'd like you to meet." Morse has never been one for small talk, he finds it awkward and unnecessary but he is, technically, a co-host of this party by virtue of their arrangement and therefore it is a necessary evil.

They walk in step through the woods, shoulders brushing every few steps.

"What were you thinking about?" Bixby asks a few yards down the road.

"How do you know i was thinking?" Bixby gives a soft huff of laughter.

"You're always thinking," he says gently, "I suspect it's your fatal flaw. Besides, the waters edge is the perfect place to think, the water seems to hold all the knowledge of the world."

Morse can't argue with that. "Fine then," he says, "I was thinking about you."

"Oh," Bixby says quietly, a subtle pink tinge creeping up from beneath the collar of his sweater. Morse hums. "All good i hope."

"I'd say so," Morse replies, watches the contagious smile that works its way across Bixby's face. It's sweet and gentle and he has to clear his throat before he speaks again.

"Good, because I rather like you," Bixby says, and takes his hand with nothing more than a little glance.

It's pleasant, walking through the trees hand in hand on a crisp summer's day.

~*~

The party is in full swing by 11pm and Morse hasn't seen Bixby for a full two hours. He's spoken to nearly every guest at the party, it has been tedious and he's intensely glad to take his leave to a dark, empty corner. This is where he is currently lurking, leaning against the cool marble pillar, drink in hand.

He supposes he shouldn't worry, Bixby is a busy man and it's important for him to keep up connections but since their friendship became something more he's felt a pressing need to keep the other man by his side as much as possible. Besides, last time Bixby was alone at a party he ended up with a bloody lip and several upset guests.

He scans the crowd in front of him, tapping his foot on the floor and finally, finally spots Bixby descending the staircase.

He cuts him off at the bottom, taking him by the wrist and pressing him into the dark corner behind the staircase.

"It's a poor host that neglects his guests."

"Neglects you, you mean," Bixby replies, flashes him a small smile that fades too fast.

"Are you okay?" Morse asks, concerned. There's a tension to his body that certainly wasn't there earlier and his hands are picking at the fibres of Morse's jacket.

"Quite alright yes," he says, but he doesn't meet Morse's eyes.

"Don't lie to me," Morse snaps, a little sharper than intended. Bixby pauses in his nervous shifting, smooths a hand over Morse's shoulder then presses a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth.

"I really am alright." And then he's gone, gracefully slipping out from between the wall and Morse's body and disappearing once again. Morse resists the urge to go after him, to force him to sit down and tell him what it is that's brought back that unhappy slant of his lips. 

Instead he slinks back to the previous corner, drinks by himself and watches the crowd carefully.

~*~

It's nearly 3am when the last guest leaves and then it's just Morse, standing alone in the entrance hallway. He doesn't know what to do with himself so he makes his way to the study, hoping to find Bixby there.

He does find him, slouched in the desk chair, drink in hand and staring blankly at the bookshelf.

Morse doesn't say anything, instead perusing the shelves, waiting for Bixby to come to him. He does, like a moth to a flame. That seems to be something they share, the inability, or perhaps unwillingness to not be in close company.

Bixby's arms weave around his waist, his head coming to rest on his back and Morse  _ feels  _ the sigh that he exhales. Morse covers his hands with his own.

"Okay?" He asks, yet again. Bixby hums and it resonates in Morse's chest.

"Tired," he says quietly. Then, "i might take a walk by the lake, get some fresh air."

Morse twists in his embrace, cups Bixby's head in his hands and looks into his eyes for a long moment. Then, mirroring what he had done earlier, he kisses the corner of his mouth, flicks a piece of hair off his face and says "alright, i'll be here."

He goes straight to the window when Bixby leaves, follows his form walking away until he blends into the darkness. The house is silent without him and it's unnerving so Morse picks a book at random and opens it in the middle.

The gunshot, then, is a startling burst of noise and fear and Morse reacts before he even knows what he's really doing.

He skids on the polished floor of the ballroom, barely catching himself before he hits the floor. His heart is in his throat, suffocating him and his feet feel like blocks of lead. He's moving but he seems to be going nowhere.

"Call an ambulance," he yells - screams, rather - at the butler as he passes, not waiting for a response. The lake seems an eternity away and he knows,  _ he knows _ what he's going to find but he spares a second to pray to a God he doesn't believe in anyway.

The jetty is damp and he slips again and he does fall this time, hard onto the wood and this time he can't seem to get up. Because there, in the water in front of him is Bixby, unmoving.

"No," he hears himself say, then launches himself forwards into the cold water. It steals the breath from his lungs, shockingly cold despite the recent good weather and it feels like moving through jelly, trying to reach Bixby.

With one trembling hand he supports his body, the other brushing the wet hair off his face. Bixby doesn't respond. There's an ugly, dark stain across the front of his shirt.

"No," he gasps, "please no."

It takes long, so long, to drag him to shore, haul him out of the water and longer still to wrestle the bow tie from his neck and press his numb fingers against the flesh there. Nothing. He tries again, presses harder and lets out a choked noise.

He feels it then, the smallest flutter of a pulse under his fingers and he thanks every god under the sky. He rips his jacket off and scrunches it up, pressing it over the wound as hard as he can.

He can hear the haunting screeches of the ambulance sirens echoing through the wood and squeezes his eyes shut to hold back the tears that threaten to fall.

"Hold on, please, just a bit longer. For me."

~*~

By the time the sun rises the next morning Morse is truly numb, he hasn't slept and his clothes are still wet but he can't seem to move from the trunk of the tree by the lake.

"Morse," Thursday says. He blinks blearily up at him. "Alright, let's get you cleaned up."

It takes a lot of pulling and nudging and, essentially, forcible manipulation of his body to get him inside and in clean clothes. Even then he shivers, not from the cold though and he can't tear his eyes from the soaked fabric of his own shirt, stained red with blood.

"Take those away will you?" Thursday gestures to the pile of clothes and Jakes obliges.

Next Thursday offers Morse a drink which he takes gratefully.

"What happened?" He asks gently, settling down next to him on the sofa.

"Someone shot him," he says and Thursday nods. "We had a party. He hadn't been himself all night he was tense and-. He said he was okay but. He went for a walk after the party wrapped up and that's when it happened."

"And you didn't see anyone?"

"No."

There's a long pause and then.

"Is there a chance he could have done this to himself?"

Morse pauses then. He can't bear the thought that he wasn't enough to ease Bixby's suffering; that he didn't see it, even in the short time they were together. But he cannot deny that Bixby had seemed unusually anxious this evening.

"No," he says finally, "I believe this was an attempt on his life."

~*~

“The hospital called,” Thursday says to him the next afternoon. “He’s stable, for now.” Relief floods his body and he slumps back in his chair. He hasn’t been allowed to see Bixby yet, on account of not being family and whatnot and it’s kept him wired and anxious for the past 18 hours.

He’s tried to distract himself by diving head first into the case, more determined than ever to find out what exactly is going on and why it came to such a dramatic climax. It reminds him why he’s stuck at his job all these years.

“Good,” he says after a few moments, “that’s good.”

“Yes,” Thursday agrees, “but they couldn’t find any medical records for anyone under the name of Joss Bixby. Not even a date of birth.”

“So what?” Jakes says, leaning against the front of Morse’s desk. “That’s not him?”

“Most likely not his real name, no.”

There’s a heavy silence that follows in which Morse determinedly doesn’t look at anyone in the room and they determinedly don’t look at him either. He doesn’t say anything but Morse can feel Thursday’s earlier warning almost hanging in the air about him.

He had said Harry Rose was up to no good and he had cast aspersions upon Bixby’s associations but Morse had brushed him off. He had known that Bixby was keeping secrets from him but he had let it slide. His stomach twists and he kind of wants to cry. He definitely wants a drink and God knows he needs a nap but-.

“Having a fake name isn’t a crime,” he says roughly and Thursday nods.

“Course,” he replies, and the unspoken ‘but’ sits uncomfortably in front of Morse. He knows, they all know that having a fake name isn’t usually a sign of innocence, he just doesn’t want to believe it. No, he downright refuses to believe it. He may have only known Bixby for a short time but it is clear to him that he is generous and warm-hearted, desperate to please and eager to love and be loved. Yet-.

“I’d like to look at the house,” he says.

~*~ 

It feels wrong to see the house so empty. His footsteps echo uncomfortably as he walks through the vast hallways. It had always seemed to be a place brimming with life, even when it was only the two of them here.

He goes to the study first, runs his fingers over the cool wood of the desk and stoically doesn't think of Bixby lounging in the chair there, relaxed and unrestrained. He sighs and opens the top drawer.

He finds what he's looking for in the bedroom, hidden in a small box. He has to admit he's a little afraid as he opens it, a slight tremble to his fingers as he plucks a torn photo from within.

Written on the back in a sloping hand is the name Charlie and it seems, then, that Joss Bixby is not who he said he was. Morse exhales a long breath and places the photo gently on the bed before turning his attention back to the box.

Next he unfolds the letter and reads it once, twice, three times in the hopes that it will make things make sense but it doesn't. All he knows now is that Joss Bixby is actually called Charlie Greel and that he and Kay knew each other before they ever met here.

He rubs his gritty, tired eyes and rolls his shoulders. He doesn't know how to feel or what to think but he definitely knows he needs to sleep. He places the box on the nightstand, looks around the room once more and then makes his way back downstairs.

Once there he finds there's a slither of light shining down the hallway that certainly wasn't there before.

"Hello, police," he calls out as he slowly approaches the doorway to the study.

"It's me," a familiar voice says from inside and Morse's heart leaps. Then he considers that whatever he thinks he heard is surely impossible, for Morse knows that Bixby - Charlie - whatever his name is, is lying in a hospital bed with a gunshot wound to the stomach. Yet he pushes the door open to reveal someone that looks, well, exactly like Bixby. 

"I-," Morse starts. He's half wondering if this is some kind of sleep deprived hallucination and almost reaches out to check.

"What's happened?" Not-Bixby asks. The longer Morse stares, the less this seems to make sense. This is not Bixby, this is an imposter, someone pretending to be him for whatever reason; it's awfully convincing but for one thing. If this were Bixby, if that were somehow possible, Morse is firmly of the belief that his instant reaction would be to kiss him. Just to check that it's really him and that he's really there. And if he hadn't, then Bixby surely would have done so himself.

Therefore, he concludes (and simultaneously realises he's still staring), this is not a hallucination, but a very good impersonator. Whether it be out of curiosity or the need to understand what exactly is going on here, he takes the drink Not-Bixby offers him and sits down.

Some time the next day, whilst staring at a photo everything falls into place and he is well and truly shaken by the completed puzzle before him.

Bixby had spoken of fate and now Morse sees why. Charlie and Conrad, their entire future decided for them in a few seconds and the toss of a single coin. Their own father condemned one to darkness and the other to a lifetime of guilt just to maintain his own career. One got to live, the other to simply exist.

A man who wasn't there slew a man who didn't exist and became someone. Or rather, tried to, but for one fatal mistake; failing to kill his own brother.

"Drink?" Thursday asks, snapping Morse out of his exhaustion-induced trance.

"No, not tonight," he says, "there's somewhere i have to be."

~*~

Bixby doesn't wake up for another four days. Morse spends the entire time at his bedside, sleeping in fits and starts, woken by even the smallest noise. He can't leave Bixby alone, not now.

He looks unusually small and pale lying in the hospital bed, relaxed in sleep in a way he never can be in life. Well, never had been. Perhaps now that unfortunate chapter of his life has ended - albeit awfully - he can move on and be free.

Morse doesn't know what Bixby's future looks like, he doesn't even know what his own future looks like right now. He's just pondering this over coffee when he catches the slightest movement out of the corner of his eye.

He stands so fast he nearly knocks his chair over. Bixby's eyes are open; he blinks slowly and blearily as he looks up at the clean, white ceiling.

"Hi," Morse says softly and Bixby slowly turns his head to blink at him instead.

"I feel terrible," Bixby croaks and Morse can't help the smile that spreads over his face as relief floods his body. Part of him had been worried that perhaps the damage had been too great, that the reason Bixby hadn't yet woken up was because his body was trying so hard to keep him alive and that eventually it would just give up. It is something of a miracle that he is alive, really and Morse is intensely grateful.

That is until he remembers he has to tell Bixby that he knows everything. But for now he calls the nurse over and settles back down in his chair, one hand resting on the edge of the bed so his fingers brush against Bixby's hand.

When's he been thoroughly checked over and drunk some water he turns back to Morse.

"What day is it?" He asks

"Thursday," Morse replies, lets him do the maths. He makes a face when he's done so. There's silence after and Morse knows this is the moment he has to come clean, he would just really rather not. He smooths down the piece of sheet closest to him, then covers Bixby's right hand with both of his and sighs.

"I know everything," he says quietly. "About Conrad, and you, Charlie."

If Bixby had looked pale before he looks positively ghostly now. His face flickers through a range of emotions before he simply looks away.

"Well then," he says, exhales what is presumably a laugh, though it sounds pained. "I suppose you know all my secrets now. Not quite so glamorous anymore is it? The life of Joss Bixby."

"It doesn't change anything, you know?" Morse replies, "what happened wasn't your fault. You were a child."

"And then I grew up and i abandoned my brother, left him to suffer while i was making my fortune and living a life of luxury."

"We all make our own choices," Morse says firmly, he wants to take Bixby's face and make him look at him so he can imprint these words firmly into his brain, but the other man is stoically looking at the ceiling. 

"You chose to make a better life for yourself. He chose to stay where he was and endure the suffering your father placed upon him."

Bixby exhales a shaky breath and finally, finally looks at Morse with his soft, sweet eyes, filled with unshed tears. It makes his chest tighten, so he entwines their fingers, squeezes Bixby's hand gently.

“Our lives were determined by a single toss of a coin. I got lucky every time, there’s nothing more to it, but I left my brother to his fate when I could have changed both our lives.”

“You couldn’t have known,” Morse says firmly. There's silence after that, then-.

"Where is he now?" Bixby asks and it's Morse's turn to look away.

"Dead," he says quietly, swallows hard. "Your father shot him when he found out what he'd done."

Bixby inhales audibly, his hand falling limp in Morse's grasp.

"I-," he starts, but can't finish. It makes Morse wish he could somehow go back and make sure none of this ever happened. Not only has Bixby never come to terms with his guilt, now he no longer has the chance to repair his relationship with his brother or his father - not that Morse would think it necessary for him to be the one making amends, but he knows Bixby sees it that way.

Morse presses a kiss to the back of his hand in an attempt to comfort. Bixby makes an awful hiccuping noise that sounds something like a sob.

"None of this is your fault. Please believe me. If you believe in fate then you must know that you couldn't have changed this even if you wanted to. I know you feel responsible but as long as you're held back by your guilt you'll never be free of who you once were, you'll never truly be Joss Bixby."

"I don't even know who Joss Bixby is anymore," Bixby says miserably, wiping at his face.

"I do," Morse replies, giving him a small smile. "I'll help you figure it out again."

~*~

Bixby is allowed to return home on Sunday and naturally Morse goes with him. They pull up to the house in silence and there's a long moment in which neither of them moves.

Looking at the house brings them both a confusing sense of happiness harshly undercut by grief. This is where had met, fallen in love and spent several sweet afternoons enjoying each others company.

But this is also where they had nearly lost each other. Where Conrad had tried to kill his brother and, in doing so, unknowingly condemned himself to death.

Finally Morse takes a deep breath and climbs out of the car. He rounds the bonnet and opens the passenger door.

"Come on," he says, holding out a hand, "we'll do it together."

Bixby looks at him for a moment, then takes his hand and gingerly climbs out of the car.

Morse leads the way up the stairs and to the front door where he hesitates for just a second and then pushes it open. It's quiet and still inside and it's almost unnerving but he steps inside anyway.

Bixby stands silently next to him as he looks around the grand entrance hall.

"You'll stay with me tonight?" He asks quietly. Morse wouldn't dare to leave him alone at a time like this and honestly, he needs to keep Bixby close for just a little longer.

"Of course," he says, and Bixby smiles.

~*~

He ends up staying for five days. That seems to be how long it takes for things to return to normal, well the new form of normal, for they are both different people to those that left here nearly two weeks ago.

Bixby goes back to work on day three, making calls and organising meetings. Morse supposes it's his way of dealing with his grief; to throw himself fully into something that consumes most of his time. Morse would do the same. In fact, he intends to, soon. He just doesn't know how to breach the topic with Bixby.

He spends several afternoons pondering the issue. He simply can't not go back to Oxford; if recent events have shown him anything it is that Oxford is where he belongs. The city and its people need him and he needs his career. He wasn't born for a life of glitz and glamour and now Bixby's home is tainted for him. No matter how hard he tries, he can't move on from what happened here.

"We need to talk," he says one afternoon, hating the way it makes Bixby's shoulders stiffen. He gestures to the chair on the other side of the desk and Morse sits. They've never sat like this, facing one another with such distance between them and it feels like an awful prediction of what is about to occur.

"I was thinking," Morse says slowly, "I need to go back to work soon." Bixby looks as though the thought had never crossed his mind and it seems awfully hard for him to consider at this very second.

"Done reviewing your options then?" He says dryly. There's no malice to it, it's just a joke that falls flat. Bixby worries his bottom lip with his teeth as he thinks, about what Morse is not quite sure but he waits anyway.

"Okay," he says finally, and that seems to be the end of it for him, for he turns his attention back to the papers on his desk.

"Okay?" Morse questions. "That's it?" He's a little wounded, he had thought that Bixby would put up more of a fight.

"That's it."

"Right. Fine." Morse bristles, he clenches his hands into fists then stands. "I thought-."

Bixby looks up at him, all soft edges and floppy hair and those damn eyes. Morse shakes his head, exhales a huff of air.

"I thought this meant more to you," he says angrily, then turns on his heel and leaves. He storms down the hall, past that stupid painting they first met at, through the obnoxious ballroom where they shared many drinks, past the shiny, slippery floor of the front hall and out onto the gravel beyond.

He makes it to the bottom of the stairs before he hears footsteps on the gravel behind him and Bixby calls our.

"Stop, wait," he calls and Morse does. He curses himself for it but he supposes he always has been weak for those he loves.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry," is the first thing Bixby says upon reaching him. Morse folds his arms across his chest and just watches him. Bixby's throat works for a minute, hands twisting nervously in front of him.

"Well?" Morse demands and Bixby clears his throat.

"What do you want me to say?" It bursts out of him in a rush and it takes Morse back a little. "What should i be saying? You have your job and i have mine and neither of us knows who we are without them and neither of us is willing to give that up."

Bixby exhales a shaky breath and Morse softens, he knows Bixby is right. He steps towards him, but Bixby continues before he can say anything.

"Do you want me to beg you to stay? Because i want to, i would get down on my knees here in the dirt and beg you to stay here because i love you and i don't want to be without you. But i  _ know _ you Morse and I know i can't make you stay and i wouldn't dream of trying to do so but please-stay with me." He says, eyes glistening in the mid-afternoon sun as he gestures at the house behind him. "Here."

Morse wants to; there is a part of him that would like nothing more than to give everything up except for the man standing in front of him; to spend the rest of his days hidden away in a big old house, blanketed by the warmth of love. But Oxford needs him. He was born to help people and fraught with tension and fragile though it may be, being a police officer provides him the opportunity to do that.

He takes a good, hard look at Joss Bixby, the real Joss Bixby with no false bravado and no more pretences. He looks from the soft shine of his hair, to the gentle downwards curve of his mouth and down his lean form to the damp grass at his feet. Joss Bixby with his unending generosity, his deep-seated guilt, his pain and his happiness; the first man Morse has ever loved and perhaps the only person he will love for the rest of his life. 

The longer he pauses the more Bixby’s whole body seems to react to the awful tension in the air. His outstretched hand begins to fall, his shoulders curling in defense. Morse has been here before, except last time he was the one laid bare. He was the one offering up his heart, begging and pleading with all his soul. He knows how much this hurts and he’s loathe to do it but-.

“Oxford needs me,” he says. It’s a rejection without him ever having to say the word no and it cuts them both deep. Bixby knows this too, for he takes a shaky breath, previously outstretched hand reaching for the comfort of his pocket as though putting it out of sight will hide the heart that was just stepped upon.

“ _ I _ need-,” he cuts himself off with a slight shake of his head, fixes a weak, wobbly smile on his face and squares his shoulders. “I need to stay here.”

“How can you? After everything that happened here.”

Bixby gives a small shrug. “It’s my home,” he says softly.

"And Oxford is mine." They look at each other for a moment longer. Every second that passes weakens Morse’s resolve just a little more. Somewhere behind him the water moves gently against the shoreline, a taunting reminder that this is where they met, and this is where he is giving up the man he loves for a - supposedly - higher purpose.

He takes a deep breath, offers a hand.

“Goodbye Joss Bixby.”

~*~

Morse drives home in silence. He lets himself into his cold, empty apartment and goes straight to the liquor shelf.

He drinks himself into a stupor, thinking about Joss Bixby all the while and curses himself for a fool for ever meeting him, and then again for letting him go.

Then, when the bottle is empty he sleeps for two full days. And after that he goes back to work.

~*~

Three months pass by uneventfully. He works, he drinks, he doesn't think about Joss Bixby and that big house and the lake and afternoons lying on the grass in the sunshine. He's fine. This is what they both wanted at the end of the day and that's fine. Really.

"Drink?" Thursday asks him, as he does every other evening.

"No thanks," Morse replies, as he does every time he's asked. Only this time Thursday takes off his hat and sits down opposite him.

"What is it that they say?" He says slowly as he draws out his pipe. "If you want something you have to go and get it."

He pauses, gives Morse a pointed look. "We meet a lot of people in our line of work, most of 'em are just passing through but sometimes you meet someone that stays."

Morse can see where this is going. He opens his mouth to interrupt.

"And if you're lucky enough to meet someone that sees you for who you are and chooses to love you anyway you should hold onto 'em tight."

"I understand Sir," Morse says. "We can get a drink." Thursday looks at him for a moment and then stands up, puts his pipe away and his hat back on.

"Good," he says, "and tomorrow you can drive out to the country and sort yourself out."

~*~

The sky is beginning to tinge with the pinks and reds of an autumnal sunset as Morse walks home from the pub. The air is crisp and cool and it helps to clear his head as he walks.

He knows what Thursday was trying to tell him, that he should go back to Bixby's and figure out how they can make this work. He's pondering this as he turns into his street and stops dead, for there, in front of his flat is a very unique red car. 

And leaning against it is a very familiar figure. His heart leaps into his throat and the longer he looks the more he wants to rush forwards and embrace him.

Instead he takes a few slow, shaky steps forwards, his knees threatening to give out underneath him. Bixby looks up then, straightening up abruptly as he notices Morse's presence.

Framed by the fading sun, he's the most beautiful sight Morse has ever seen. He stops just a metre away from him and neither seems able to speak, or indeed able to do anything but look.

"Hi," Bixby says finally and breathlessly.

"Hello," Morse replies. They smile at one another. Then - "would you like to come in?"

Bixby smiles, something sweet and genuine and nods.

"I'd love to."

~*~

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading right to the end! I don't love the last quarter of this fic but i didn't really know how else to help it progress without jumping a lot so. I would also like to make it very clear that I think Conrad is just as much of a victim as Charlie and i find their story deeply tragic.
> 
> You can find me [here](https://kingsmanassemble.tumblr.com/) on tumblr. My ask box is always open and i always respond so whether you loved it or hated it, feel free to let me know.
> 
> I also consider prompts for any of the fandoms i'm in so!!


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